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when my sister was young,
she climbed rock piles
while I scaled
mountains of bodies;
she tore her toenail off,
I broke my heart
but all things unconsidered
I never forgot how to fall
and I wrapped my wounds
in sea-weed and algae
the salt burned the cut,
I learned to take on
smaller less imposing
hurdles;
she gave up.
I would be a liar, however,
if I wrote truth
honestly there was something
mesmerizing about
sitting atop the rubble
and flicking cigarette butts
burnt to the filter
to my footprints
and sandals.
I cried then,
somedays I still do,
there's always something
in my eye
dust
woodchips
dander
you
if it wasn't for my blushed skin,
I'd never give it away
but my secrets
are written all over me
usually
she's better at it.
secrets, I mean.
I could learn a thing from her,
about rock piles.
neutral shades stacked in an uncompromising
alter, where the weary can throw down
thoughts, like pebbles
hoping the earth will recieve them
like clouds rest in atmosphere.